


WTCH

by ColorInPlatinum



Category: RWBY
Genre: Origin Story, headcanon heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorInPlatinum/pseuds/ColorInPlatinum
Summary: the grimm are described as "creatures of destruction" and lack a soul; hence, they are unable to use aura. they are also drawn to feelings of negativity- such as envy, sadness, loneliness, and hatred- often congregating towards the source of these emotions.





	1. Watts

**Author's Note:**

> everything subject to change as the series goes on of course.

He is the brightest mind in all of Atlas.

Since the day he could walk, Watts has shown immense intelligence and skill in technology. He always gravitated towards more advanced toys and puzzles, instead of other children. He was always on his Scroll, typing away but never speaking to anyone on either side. Most called him antisocial, but as he grew, they changed their tune.

Genius, savant, prodigy, the greatest mind of this generation.

By the age of ten, Watts had graduated academic school, and began his training as Atlas' youngest Huntsman-in-training. He loved electricity, in his work and in his fighting. Eventually, his semblance followed through, allowing the boy to produce lightning from his very fingertips. His weapon became a quarterstaff, adorned with copper and able to conduct electricity like a lightning rod. People abandoned his first name for his apropos surname.

Watts, the greatest mind of our time.

He became a true Huntsman at the ripe age of fifteen, but quickly found that combat was not his forte. Though he was skilled and calculating, it just wasn't fun. His training was simply another trophy on his shelf, another notch in his belt. He began to write, but even the books that earned his fortune couldn't quite satisfy him. Watts was becoming terribly, horrifically bored with being a genius. What could one learn if they had already learned everything?

He was quick to contact the military, when it dawned on him that he hadn't truly perfected everything about himself. Though he was only seventeen, the Atlesian military could do nothing but accept when they saw his name and credentials. Boot camp and basic training were just as easy as everything else, and--as expected--he was quick to soar above all the others.

Watts climbed the ranks: he was a private one day, and mere months later, people were saluting him and shouting, "General Watts, sir!"

It felt good. It felt right. The power he held over others kept him in the Atlesian ranks for years to come, but it seemed his comfort was never meant to last.

Friendly fire. That's how it all began. A single stray bullet from his gun and down went the cadet in front of him. He had weapons trained on him in seconds. The media had a field-day, but eventually, Watts was acquitted of any murder charges. The people of Atlas were in an uproar; they claimed it was Watts' name and money that saved his hide, and called their beloved military corrupt. Case after case began to appear against Watts, making him the scapegoat for whatever it was the people were accusing the military of.

It was awfully bothersome. Watts spent day after day presenting files and documents, repeating the same story over and over again. He came home with a headache every night, woke with press outside his door. It had gone from bothersome to unbearable in little time.

And then one day, it happened. As he walked down the shiny halls of the Atlas courthouse, he noticed his name slapped onto every security camera and keypad. Noticed his programs running their course on every computer. What was he doing here, as they accused, when everyone around him was practically a slave to his whims and creations?

He sat calmly at the witness stand, recited his oath, but the stories never came. Instead of the usual "ladies and gentlemen of the court", he laughed. In fact, he had never laughed so hard in his entire life. Every giggle, every chuckle only made his vision clearer: his name, on the doors, the windows, the cameras, the vents, the locks. How dare they stand there and pretend to be in control?

The lights went out in a single second, sending everyone in the room into a panic. When the lights did not come back on, the doors were rushed. The locks did not give.

Light erupted through the room again, but this time it came from Watts, the accused. He stood atop the judge's podium, hair standing on edge, a deranged smile on his face, and the judge's dead body held by the collar in his hand. People screamed.

The next few minutes were a blur of violence. Lights flickered and flashed as Watts tore through every member of the crowd. People fell to the floor, their skin burnt from his powers, agonized screams leaving their dying mouths. Limbs tore from their sockets and his fingers sank gladly into their terror-stricken eyes.

When the screams finally stopped and the lights came back up, Watts found himself standing among a pile of bodies, all frozen in their last moment of horror. Blood stained his white uniform, dripped down his cheeks, fell from his hands. His smile had finally faded, but the exhilaration was far from gone.

That's when he heard it. The sound of slow, gentle clapping.

He turned to face the source of the noise, only to find a single woman standing among the carnage. At first, Watts found himself disappointed that he had not tore through everyone, until he noticed her skin.

It was as pale as snow, and looked like it might be just as cold. Sickly, purple-red veins curled along her arms and up her neck, encroaching on her surprisingly angelic face. Her eyes, however, betrayed her interest, as her irises were a burning red surrounded by solid, inky black. Her hair, white as her skin, was tied in an impossible shape, jewels dangling from the ends of it.

"My, my, my," she said, her voice soft and lyrical. "it seems you made a wonderful mess of things, doesn't it, Watts?"

Though he can calculate the most difficult of equations, the most obvious of questions comes to his mind: "How do you know my name?"

The stranger laughs. "You have made quite a bit of it in the last few years. Would you expect someone to not be familiar with your name?"

She had him there, and it must have showed on his face because she laughed again. The woman began to move, gliding effortlessly over the bodies as if she was a ghost. Watts, not knowing what else to do, took a few steps back. Her dark eyes turned cold and she extended an elegant, snow white hand.

"Watts. You are the most brilliant mind this world has ever seen, but your destiny does not lie in Atlas. It lies with me."

Watts' green eyes narrowed at her hand, scrutinizing her actions. "What makes you so sure?" he finally asked, his throat feeling drier than a desert.

Her own eyes, dark and inviting, soften. A smile forms on her delicate lips before she speaks. "Because I see all."

He didn't know why then, and he still doesn't now, but that single sentence sent a chill up his spine. Something in the back of his mind told him that she wasn't lying. Something told him that she wasn't human.

Something told him that his destiny lay by her side.

Her hand was just as cold as he predicted when he took it, and the world around him seemed to melt.

"My name is Salem," she said. "and you and I are going to change the world."


	2. Tyrian

"Tyrian! Sweetie, come on inside! It's late!"

He wasn't always a maniac.

"Aww, Mom! Five more minutes?"

In fact, he was what most would call normal at one point.

"Fine, five minutes! Don't go too far, hun!"

He had a family. A mother, a father.

"I won't! Thanks Mom! I love you!"

How pathetic is that?

The moment Tyrian was sure his mother's back was turned, he took off into the woods. His small village, nestled along the outskirts of Anima, had only a handful of people and children to socialize with, but the woods always called Tyrian instead. He was a quiet child, but his mother didn't mind. He was well-behaved and gentle, a kind soul with dreams of helping those less fortunate than him.

He hurried through the woods, swinging a stick back and forth against the trees, pretending they were Grimm. He could see it now: Tyrian, the mighty Huntsman, protector of the weak, slayer of Grimm. Maybe they'd erect a statue of him in their village. He'd be their hero.

His mother always told him not to get his hopes up. A cruel thing to say to most children, but when a slender black tail and your parents' pointed ears paint a target on your back, it's practically essential. But he vowed years ago that he would be the first faunus Huntsman from their small town.

Tyrian roared as he swung his make-believe sword at an invisible Grimm, and his gleeful smile vanished when his stick snapped on the snout of an actual Beowulf. He screamed in fear and fell back, eyes wide in terror as the creature edged closer. It licked its teeth hungrily, but just before it could maul the poor child to death, it froze. The Grimm whined and retreated like a scolded puppy, called by something.

Tyrian gasped when he realized it was someone.

She was surrounded by Grimm. An Ursa rested its head in her lap, and she stroked it like it was a pet. The twin Taijitu encircled the rock she sat upon, the Beowulf that nearly ate him lay before her, and a Griffon grazed lazily behind her.

Tyrian's eyes were still wide with horror and shock, but the woman, clad all in black, smiled gently at him. Her red and black eyes burned into him, and when she lifted her hand, he felt compelled to stand.

"Dear boy, what brings you so deep into these woods?" she asked. "Don't you know it's dangerous?"

Tyrian stuttered before speaking. "I-I--I told my mom that I would only be a few minutes--"

"Oh? Then why come out so far?" she asked. Tyrian found himself unable to speak. The woman laughed and held out a hand. "Come here, child. You don't need to be afraid of me."

Though hesitant, (his mother's "stranger danger" policy began to replay in his head) Tyrian took her hand, shivering at its cold touch. She pulled him up and into her lap, one icy hand on his knee and the other already curling into his long hair.

"Do you have a name, my dear?" she asked.

"T-Tyrian."

"Tyrian. How sweet. I am Salem."

And that's how it began. Tyrian was scolded for staying out so late when he came home, Salem's cold touch lingering on his knee and down his back. He dreamed of her, of how oddly beautiful she was surrounded by the Grimm, who seemed to bend to her will. He began to rush back to the forest every day, searching for her clearing to talk with her.

She told him wonderful stories, about maidens and guardians and warriors and kingdoms. She told him that one day, he could be one of those heroes, but that he wasn't quite ready yet. Every time she told him that, Tyrian asked just what it was that he had to do to be ready.

"All in due time," she would say. "all in due time."

His eleventh birthday finally came, and after the small party, he ran to the woods as usual. Salem was eager to give him his gift: a pair of bladed gauntlets, his first weapons. Tyrian spent hours swinging them about, paying careful attention to Salem's direction. When it began to get dark, and Tyrian's time to go home came closer, Salem ushered him close.

Grinning, Tyrian climbed into her lap. One of her hands rested in his mop of hair as usual, and she pressed their foreheads together.

"My dearest Tyrian," she cooed. "you are finally ready to fulfill your destiny."

She leaned in close to his ear and whispered it to him, and Tyrian nodded with excitement.

That night, his parents yelled at him. They told him that he was not allowed in the woods anymore, that they didn't want him to get hurt. They demanded to know where he got those weapons from, and who he had been spending so much time with.

When his mother bent her knee to speak with him, Tyrian swung his blade into her chest. Shock, horror, betrayal, fear, all flashed over her expression as she hit the ground. Tyrian's father rushed forward to subdue him, but Tyrian hissed and sank his blade into the man's gut.

Neither of his parents were dead, and they both stared up at him with terror in their eyes. Tyrian took his time finishing them off.

The room grew cold when Salem entered, a knowing smile on her face. She examined the gory scene before her, pleased to find limbs and heads scattered about the room. Her hands came to rest on Tyrian's shoulders. He grinned and looked up expectantly.

"I did it!" he said. "Just like you asked! Aren't you proud?"

Salem laughed and nodded. "I am, my dear," she said, leaning down to pick the boy up. Tyrian nuzzled into her chest, bloodstained arms wrapping around her neck.

"I am very proud of you."


	3. Cinder

Cinder found herself on her knees in the snow-covered garden, crying again. Her stepmother would be calling for her soon, but she can at least pretend to be her own person for a few more minutes. When she lifted her head from the icy bench, the snow beneath her had turned pink from the blood upon her brow and pouring from her nose. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, sniffling as she wiped the blood and tears from her cheeks.

It was always like this. Do the chores, get yelled at, more work, break a plate or trip over the laundry or something so tiny, get punched. Get hit. Get shoved. Get touched. The tears and patches along her dress told a story just like the tears and patches along her skin. Bruises pressed against her throat, her thighs, her cheeks, paired with their sickening partners: the gashes that line her hands and feet, the scars on her arms. They stared her down every time she looked in a mirror.

She heard footsteps. They were slow, but had purpose. Cinder slowly stood to face her stepmother, ready for whatever punishment she would be dealt for running off this time, but was halted by a voice.

"Cinder," it said, colder than the wind on the girl's back. "why are you crying?"

Cinder spun around and felt her blood run cold at the sight of the woman before her, and the two companions on either side of her. The woman was tall, almost statuesque, with skin as white as the snow but lined with veins that looked nearly black in the dim light. Her eyes glowed in the dusky night, a blood red that burned into Cinder's amber.

The boy to her left was thin, almost scraggly, with long brown hair that fell past his shoulders and blew wildly in the wind. His eyes changed from gold to violet with nearly every blink, and Cinder could swear she saw both colors at once. His smile twisted along his cheeks like barbed wire, rivaled only by the scorpion tail that whipped back and forth behind him.

The young man to her right was dressed in what might have once been Atlas military garb, but had been altered and nearly defaced over the years. His skin was the color of fresh clay, like the earth beneath a flourishing garden. The beginnings of a mustache rested on his upper lip, and his green eyes seemed to glimmer in the moonlight.

"Who are you?" Cinder demanded, though her voice shook from crying.

"We are your saviors," said the boy with the grin. He giggled and his eyes turned violet, and he tossed the body and head of Cinder's stepmother to the snowy ground--in two separate pieces.

Most would have screamed at the sight, but Cinder merely stared. The boy on the left looked to the man on the right and exchanged knowing glances.

Cinder stepped toward the body, almost unaware of her observers, and knelt beside it. Her stepmother's face was twisted, frozen in a horrific final moment of living. Blood was freezing to her skin while the rest seeped into the snow from her lower body, nearly a foot away. Cinder looked up to the strange woman, who gestured to her companions. The night had been so dim that she hadn't noticed the blood on their clothing until now.

"Why are you crying?" the woman repeated. Cinder fell speechless.

"Ooh, _look_ at her!" the grinning boy cried. "She's _covered_ in blood! Do you think it's her own?"

" _ **Tyrian**_ ," scolded the man opposite the grinning boy. "you know it's impolite to stare."

"You're no fun lately, _**Watts**_." Tyrian spat back, hands on his hips to pout. The woman before them snapped her fingers and both of them stood silently at attention.

Cinder finally found her voice again, and spoke up. "I was scared, so I came outside. I always come to the garden--"

"--when you're scared." finished the woman. "I know, Cinder. I've been watching you for weeks now."

Weeks? That didn't make sense. If someone had been watching her, why hadn't they stepped in? Cinder could feel fury rising within her, but the growing smile from Tyrian quickly quelled it. Something about him felt off to her, and it wasn't just the smile or the tail.

"You have great potential," the woman said, making Cinder's attention turn back to her. "and I know how to help you reach it."

Cinder looked over the woman's shoulders to the house behind her, where her father and stepsisters likely still were, if the lunatics hadn't killed them as well.

"Tell me what you want, Cinder." the woman cooed.

Cinder thought for a moment. She wanted freedom, she wanted revenge, she wanted so much but...

"I want to be strong." she answered. "I want to be feared." Cinder saw Watts' eyes light up. "I want to be powerful." Tyrian began to cackle.

The woman extended her hand, a wicked smile gracing her lips. "My name is Salem," she said. "Do you believe in fairy tales, Cinder?"

Tyrian's laughter became overwhelming, echoing off the land around them. Watts began to grin, as if fueled by the boy's crazed cackling.

Cinder looked once more to the body, then to the blood on her own hands, and nodded.

"Yes."

She took Salem's hand.


	4. Hazel

"HURRY UP!" Tyrian shouted, flying over the gap between buildings as he chased after the man below them on the streets. Watts trailed just behind, his attention focused mainly on the holoscreens projected before him. Cinder was out of sight, far behind them on a tall building with her arrows trained on their target.

"Don't be a brat! I'm right behind you!" Watts spat back. "You're supposed to be watching him anyway!"

Tyrian flung himself forward, his tail catching on a telephone pol so he could lean over the edge of the last building. He snarled at the sight of the man below rounding the corner. "You were supposed to get him out of prison without tripping the alarms!"

"Well if you hadn't interfered, then perhaps I would have--!"

"Boys," came Cinder's cool voice over the comms. "I believe we have a target to catch before sundown. I know Lady Salem would be quite disappointed to hear we've just been bickering."

Watts huffed and closed his screens, scanning the ground below while Tyrian tilted his head to listen. They both saw it, both heard it when the target slammed himself against a wall below, hoping to hide from prying eyes.

"I've got the left flank!" Watts shouted.

"On it!" Tyrian responded, before launching himself off the building. Watts darted off in the opposite direction.

Below them, Hazel sped off again, the chains around his arms and legs clanking with every heavy step. His prison uniform, once the standard orange, is covered with enormous red stains and cuts. None of the blood is his own. In his arms, he cradled the limp body of a young girl, who appeared to be the source of the growing bloodstains along his front.

Hazel nearly skidded to a stop when Tyrian landed in front of him, his tail curled high over his head to keep the man in place. "Calm down," Tyrian cooed, a grin spreading along his face. "we're not here to hurt you."

"We?" Hazel repeated, slowly stepping away from Tyrian. He found himself halted by a staff against his spine.

"My associates and I are here to offer you--well, a job, really." Watts said, cocking a brow at Hazel. The man spun around, still clinging to the rag doll in his arms.

"Let the girl go, Hazel," Cinder called from the building above. Her arrow was trained on the man's head. "She's dead and we both know it."

Hazel's mouth hung open in shock and he spun about as if trying to find an exit. When it became clear there was none, he fell to his knees. The girl in his arms flopped forward, and when her empty eyes met with Tyrian's, things became suddenly more clear.

"So that's why she wants you." Tyrian cooed, staring at the little girl in Hazel's arms. Dark skin, barely a shade lighter than her fathers, with charcoal hair and brown eyes. Blood seeped from her nose, the corners of her mouth, and even her eyes. Cinder lowered her weapon.

"We have a proposition for you." she said, leaping to the ground below.

"Yes, you see, our employer has become quite invested in keeping you alive and out of police custody." Watts added. A screen popped up next to him, displaying Hazel's criminal record: not only had he murdered an entire squad of police officers, but his wife and daughter as well.

"So she has come all this way to meet you personally." Tyrian finished, stepping to the side.

The shadows behind him seemed to part like curtains, and from them stepped an ethereal being with paper white skin and glowing red eyes. Hazel found himself staring up at her, though in awe or fear, he never knew. The girl in his arms fell in front of him.

"You have caught my interest, Hazel," the woman said, smiling. "and that takes a lot. You should feel honored."

Tyrian giggled next to her and rocked excitedly on his heels. The woman nodded as if to acknowledge him, and it made him even giddier.

"What are you?" Hazel asked, his voice a low whisper. "Are you a demon? Is--is this my punishment?"

A chorus of laughter erupted around him, from Watts, Tyrian, Cinder, even the strange woman herself. The four of them all seemed to exchange looks, like they knew a secret Hazel did not. He wouldn't put it past them.

"This is your redemption, Hazel." the woman said.

"You have two choices," Watts chimed in. "Stay here, where the police will catch up to you and likely jail or kill you for murdering so many people--"

"Or you can come with us," Tyrian cooed. "where you can make a difference in this world that your family would be proud of."

"The choice is yours," Cinder finished. "but you don't have much time."

The girl was right; Hazel could hear police sirens and the sound of barking orders. Hazel looked down once more to the dead girl before him. Hi daughter, his child, the apple of his eye. He had done this to her.

A pale, white hand came into view, long black nails extending toward him. Hazel, his face covered in tears and blood, looked up at her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Salem. And we are going to change the world."

He took her hand.


End file.
